Morning sunlight streamed through the leaves of the trees in the little forest, dappling the world and the three people beneath the canopy.

The other men looked at each other.

“John, will you defer to me in the matter of the heart and hand of Elizabeth Parkwood?”

“Andrew, I fear I shall not do so. Will you defer to me in the said matter?”

“No, John, I fear I shall not do so, either. We are not reconciled.”

Morton sighed. As the mutually agreed second for both duelists, he opened the box containing the pistols and began preparing them for use. The pistols belonged to John’s family, and they had all shot with them for sport. Morton knew the guns to be exceptionally good ones; nothing within fifteen paces stood a chance of survival.

Artemis looked around the tight canyons of the great city. She was there for a change of pace. There were kinds of hunting here, although not the traditional sort she had always patronized.

She watched as a bus pulled up to its stop and several passengers exited. One man captured her attention, and she watched as he trudged down the sidewalk.

Artemis, goddess of the hunt, knew the terrible look of prey resigned to its fate, and that was the look on this man’s face. He was conventionally handsome and of average height. He wore a dull gray suit and a black tie. Only the despairing look in his eyes distinguished him from the crowd.

“Athena,” she called in her mind. “Do you have a moment?”

The other goddess appeared next to Artemis.

“Look at that man,” Artemis said, pointing down the street. “What has happened to him?”

Athena used her powers of knowledge and wisdom and divined the man’s history. She saw images…

The day after the big thunderstorm tore through the city, I went to work as always. Police cars were all over the place, and so was a bunch of shredded insulation, and the company’s roof. Yellow police tape kept me out of the parking lot, so I found a spot up the block and walked down.

I sidled up to Kevin. “Nice of Pankhurst to let us know about this.”

“Sure was. Otherwise we might have wasted our time and come down here today.”

“That roof has looked better.”

“The roof isn’t the interesting thing,” Kevin said. “All these cops wouldn’t be here just for a roof being off. There are roofs off all over the city.”

Once upon a time, in a little town in a beautiful valley, there lived a boy named Hansel. No, not that Hansel; it was just a common name. He lived with his father, a cobbler; his mother, a life coach, or busybody as they called them then; and his older sister, Hilde (see, not that Hansel), whom Hansel was convinced was the apple of their parents’ eyes as she was never compelled to do a lick of work around the house but helped out anyway.

The valley was surrounded by a deep forest, part of which was enchanted. There were signs clearly marking where the enchanted part was, and everyone entering the forest kept well to either side of the signs just to be safe. All the adults of the town and the nearby farms warned their children, and sometimes each other for good measure, to stay out of the enchanted part of the forest.

One day, Hansel’s father sent him out to chop wood for the fire. Hansel grudgingly shouldered the heavy axe and trudged toward the door.

“Remember not to enter the enchanted part of the forest,” his father said, and Hansel said it along with him in the insolent manner of children everywhere. His father threw a boot sole at Hansel’s butt, which made Hansel yip in an undignified manner and spoiled his insubordinate mood.

First, Stephanie killed Grant, which he hadn’t been expecting. Then Loren killed Stephanie, which she hadn’t been expecting.

Now Loren had two dead bodies on his hands, which he had been expecting, but he still had no idea how to proceed. That part of the plan had never coalesced in Loren’s mind.

All the shooting had taken place in Loren’s cabin in the woods, so there were no witnesses and no concerned neighbors to call the police. There was simply the matter of the two corpses bleeding on the thick rug that protected the hardwood floor.

Spring had loosened winter’s grip on the soil, but Loren’s back began to ache as he thought of all the trouble it would be to dig graves, or even a grave. That sort of manual labor just wasn’t normal. Nor did he know how to use a backhoe even if he had had access to one.

He also lacked a vat of acid in which to dissolve his victims. The nearest river was miles away over rough terrain, and drought had turned it into more of a creek than an actual hide-the-body-in-the-depths river.

“You have come at an excellent time, Mr. Geduld, as I am about to complete this painting.” He shook hands with the writer. “Please have a seat and you may observe. I trust that will be useful for your book.”

“Indeed it will, Mr. Truitt, and let me thank you again for this opportunity.”

Truitt smiled. “The opportunity is mine, Mr. Geduld. To be included in a book about the great painters of our day will be quite the honor.”

“I believe the chapter about the life and work of Peter Bascomb Truitt will be of the greatest interest, sir. Are you painting this still life with your particular method of merely glancing at the canvas?”

They were alone in his home after the usual friends had gone. She stood by the bedroom door, a little smile playing on her lips. He walked up to her and put his arms around her waist.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Sex,” he told her. After a pause to test his courage, he plunged onward. “And love.”

Her smile slipped a little. “How about one out of two?”

His head dipped slightly, and he went for broke. “We don’t have to have sex.”

Her smile returned, but it was blighted by the sweet sadness in her eyes. She drew him to her and hugged him. “Oh, Honey.” She held him quietly for a moment or two, acknowledging his need even as she denied it. She whispered in his ear. “Let’s go in here and make each other feel really good, huh?”

He nodded his head against hers. They went into the bedroom and did many gentle and energetic and passionate things together.

He awoke in the morning just as she was about to walk out the door.

“Hey,” his scratchy voice said.

“Oh, hey.” She smiled. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got to be in the office early today. See you later?”

“Hope so.”

She bent over the bed and gave him a quick, friendly peck. “Bye.”

“Bye.” And he heard the front door close and her car leave.

He smiled, remembering all they had done together. Then, remembering what she did not – apparently could not – give him, he embraced her pillow, tighter and tighter, trying to soothe the abraded, agonized place inside him that cried out for more.

A tall, shapely woman walked up the three flights of outdoor stairs and turned right, approaching the apartment she was looking for. She was reasonably well dressed and wore a matching set of 12-carat earrings, necklace, and bracelet. She made three sharp, short knocks on the door.

Another woman opened the door. She was a few years older than the one outside. She was not well dressed, she was not wearing jewelry, and her figure was settling.

“I’m Yolanda,” the younger woman said. “Mrs. Cates, I want you to let Horace go so he and I can be together.”